


Morsels

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M, Okay some plot though, PWP, Porn With Plot, Series 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morse isn't looking for love, just a light in the darkness. DeBryn isn't sure what it is he's looking for, but it might be something more.</p><p>Previously a PWP series, now with P.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Innisfree

“This is your Innisfree then, is it?”

DeBryn looked from the rude dacha down at the young man sitting beneath the towering beech, pale and damp in the rosy-fingered dawn. His white shirt was grey with water stains and wear, his dark suit rumpled and clinging to his thin form. A few yards to his left lay the remains of a second man, also in evening dress, a bloody pulp where his face had once been. Coming across the two of them alone together on the lakeshore presented a scene so opposite to that of rustic bliss that it was jarring.

There was a long stretch before Morse answered, just the wind whispering in the leaves and the plaintive cry of a distant shorebird filling the silence. Morse’s fingers tightened on his sleeve. “I thought so. For a while. Until I found him.” His voice was low, worn and rough as a disused blade. His eyes slanted briefly in the direction of the corpse. “Now…” he shrugged. “Et in Arcadia ego.”

“It can be difficult, living in death’s shadow,” replied DeBryn.

Morse’s pale eyes rose, meeting his with a dull weariness.

“Am I in his, or he in mine? Some days it’s hard to tell. I thought if I left, it wouldn’t matter. But he followed me here.” He sounds almost accusatory, like a man cursing the gods for their fickleness. 

DeBryn sighed. Arm beginning to ache, he set down his pathology case on the grass. “I think you give yourself too much credit. His death was nothing to do with you; found floating in the water, the reports said. Nor,” he added more crisply, “was Angela McGarrett’s.”

Morse frowned. “And Deare? Mrs Coke-Norris? Inspector Thursday?”

“Policemen deal with death, Morse. That is an immutable fact. It doesn’t make you the Grim Reaper. Or his aide,” he added, somewhat crossly, seeing Morse about to protest. “What happened to you was a miscarriage of justice; the need for recuperation is understandable. However dragging the blame for every case of violence which has touched you to lie at your doorstep is at best supreme vanity, at worst paranoid delusion.”

For a long moment silence reigned, just the two of them and the unfurling dawn. Then, slowly, Morse let out his breath in a gentle snort. “Clearly I ought to have consulted you prior to taking my leave,” he said, in a wry tone.

“Clearly so,” replied DeBryn, but there was honest sympathy in his voice, and Morse looked away first.

In the awkward silence that followed, DeBryn stepped over to consider the corpse.

“I didn’t want to see anyone,” Morse said, voice nearly a whisper. “When I got out. I just wanted to vanish. To pretend for a while that there was no Farnleigh, No Blenheim Vale. No Oxford. To crawl into the earth and melt away.” Out of the corner of DeBryn’s eye he watched the former detective draw his knees up to his chest and encircle them with his arms.

DeBryn turned towards him, eyebrows raised in careful inquiry. “And now?”

Morse canted his head to the side, a slow sad smile at his lips. DeBryn was surprised by its bitterness. “I remembered that what I want isn’t important. It’s what needs doing.”

“A rather socialist view,” said DeBryn, forcing a note of amusement in his voice. 

Morse leant his head back against the rough trunk. “It’s how I feel, for all that.”

In the distance the low hum of a car engine became audible, a pair of yellow lamps pouring forth light rounding the corner of the lake road’s rusty earth. 

“Solitude is well and good, Morse, but like the rest of us you’re no phoenix; you were made to be with others. If you need someone to talk to, you know where I live.”

Morse’s eyes flashed to him, and for a moment they stood with eyes interlocked. DeBryn read desperation there, and heartache. 

The car rumbled closer, headlamps flashing up and over them in the grey dawn. It rolled to a stop and the engine died.

“Thank you,” replied Morse quietly, eyes sliding closed as the car doors opened. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

For all that he mocked Morse’s belief of trailing death after him like a veil, DeBryn wasn’t surprised when another body appeared; Morse had a knack of entangling himself in the most complicated and emotional crimes. He was surprised at how exactly it matched the first which had been brought in, and deduced from the similarity that the men were brothers – possibly twins. 

His supposition was correct, he learnt from Morse when the latter arrived to receive his autopsy report. “He killed his brother,” said Morse, eyes skirting the empty autopsy room’s clinical dressings, “and his father killed him.”

“‘And the brother shall deliver up the brother to death, and the father the child.’” DeBryn shook his head. “In some of the worst regards, the world has changed little in the past two thousand years.” He took a breath and looked at Morse, running his eyes over the detective’s narrow frame. Morse had returned to his usual cheap suits and tumbling red curls, no longer damp and dismal. Today’s suit was the dark blue, matched by a dark tie with a sea blue streak which brought out his eyes. And despite the chill of the autopsy room he stood straight and confident, colour returned to his cheeks. 

All in all, extremely fetching, DeBryn considered privately.

“I hear you’ve returned to the Force,” he said, and saw Morse smile.

“For my sins.” It had less of the ring of bitterness and wretchedness that had been there on the shore of Lake Silence. “I’ll be bringing my things in from the dacha and finding somewhere in town again; I lost my last flat, of course.”

Someday, Morse might keep a flat for the whole of a year, but it had yet to occur. DeBryn canted his head to the side, considering. “If you’re in need of somewhere to stay,” he offered.

Morse blinked. “That’s very kind, but –”

“Morse, you’ve been out of work for months, living like a chameleon off the air itself, for all I could see out in that cabin of yours. What on earth have you to pay a hotel bill with?” he asked, with more straightforwardness than tact. Morse flushed, but slipped his hands sheepishly into his pockets. 

“I can manage,” he demurred, glancing away. DeBryn rolled his eyes.

“Yes, of course you can. But why should you when you’ve friends –”

Morse looked up sharply, and DeBryn stopped, staring at the look of caged wariness in the younger man’s face. 

“I am a friend, I hope,” he continued, carefully. Morse’s face softened and DeBryn realised it wasn’t censure but disbelieving indignation he had seen. “Morse, I meant it when I said that you needn’t be alone.”

Morse’s eyes were shuttered now, dark and guarded. They ran over DeBryn’s figure with such undisguised assessment that the doctor nearly blushed, even as his head spun. “What is it you are offering?” Morse asked, with precision.

DeBryn did flush now. “Nothing more than you need – a place to stay.”

Morse reached up to run his thumb along his jaw in slow consideration. DeBryn’s favour of him had never been a secret – he was the only junior officer to whom the pathologist condescended to provide information, or to joke with. DeBryn had tended to Morse often enough that he doubted his gentle covetousness had gone unnoticed by the constable, but Morse had never spoken of it. That he had sometimes caught Morse watching him when his attention seemed elsewhere had also, of course, gone unspoken. 

“Very well,” agreed Morse, as though he were granting rather than receiving a favour. DeBryn smiled, and saw it returned in a smaller portion from Morse.

“Your traps are at the station, I presume?” He watched Morse’s nod, and then glanced at the clock. “Then I can come by for you at five, if that would suit?”

“It would. Thank you,” said Morse, and stepped quietly out.

\------------------------------------------------------------

It was closer to quarter past when DeBryn arrived in his battered old Morris in front of Cowley Station. Morse was already standing in the lee of the stone stairs with a trunk and three suitcases. The suitcases they put in the boot, the trunk in the back seat, and that was the end of it. “Rather light,” said DeBryn, as they got into the car. Morse shrugged. 

“Man is the sum of his actions, not his baggage.”

“A good job, in your case,” replied DeBryn lightly.

Morse smiled.

\------------------------------------------------------------

They bundled his belongings away into the spare bedroom, and DeBryn left Morse to get himself settled while he went to open a bottle of wine and get a start on dinner. Morse had protested that he would only be staying a day or two and had little need to unpack anything, but as DeBryn had pointed out, one could never be sure of the housing supply in Oxford before the end of term.

He was just deglazing the pot from the first formation of what was to be chicken cacciatore when Morse appeared, in the dark trousers and his shirtsleeves. DeBryn was struck momentarily dumb by the sight of him; he had never seen the constable look so informal. Or, indeed, quite so striking. In the open-collared shirt DeBryn could see that his freckles ran down the column of his neck to sprinkle lightly over his delicate collarbones, and that the skin at the hollow of his neck was pale and perfect and fluttered with the act of his breathing. 

“Can I help?” he asked; DeBryn shook his head. 

“There’s a bottle of red on the counter; pour yourself some if you like – glasses in the last cupboard on the end.” He nodded to the upper cupboard, and watched with lowered eyes the sleek line of Morse’s spine as he slipped past towards the indicated shelf. 

Perhaps, he considered as he turned back to the bubbling pot, this had not been the best of ideas.

“Feel free to have the radio on; or there’s some records, if you prefer,” suggested DeBryn. The kitchen was open to the living room on one end, broken up by a long counter which housed the sink and various cupboards. Morse passed him again, this time with a glass in hand, and was soon sprawled on the floor in front of the turntable flipping through DeBryn’s record collection. He selected one, and after a moment DeBryn recognized Beethoven’s violin concerto. Morse remained there on the carpet listening to it, sitting with an effortless straight-backed grace, occasionally sipping from his glass. 

DeBryn tried very hard to return to the business of dinner. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

The music thankfully provided enough of a distraction that any pauses in the dinner conversation where DeBryn’s train of thought drifted off in the face of his handsome houseguest could be chalked up to musical appreciation. They ate without much conversation; the meal was filling at least although the mushrooms had little flavour and the chicken was rather overdone. 

“It’s far better than I’ve had in a long time,” said Morse, and from the sight of his narrow waist DeBryn believed him. 

After dinner they sat together in the living room with a bottle of brandy, DeBryn on the sofa and Morse in an over-stuffed armchair. Morse drained two glasses, and then setting aside his tumbler with a quiet clunk on the table. 

“Did you mean what you said, before – by the lake? That we’re not made to be alone?”

DeBryn raised his eyebrows, but nodded slowly. “Man is inherently social – in spite of all your efforts, Morse, you’ve not strayed so far from the herd as to make you much different in that regard.”

Morse stared back at him, blue eyes burning like gas-flames. “I don’t want conversation, or comfort, or love,” he said, almost as though he were daring DeBryn to contradict him. “Not now.”

“What is it you want, then?”

Morse ran his tongue over his lips. “I want not to be alone.”

DeBryn took a deep, shuddering breath. “You aren’t,” he said, weakly.

Morse’s eyes met his, and he could read exactly what they wanted, exactly what the snapping flame there longed for. “I want to know it; to feel it.” There was a low thrum in his voice; it sent a shiver up DeBryn’s spine. He rose slowly, deliberately, and stepped closer to DeBryn. DeBryn tilted his head back to watch as Morse lowered himself to perch on DeBryn’s knees, resting pale hands on DeBryn’s shoulders. 

“I want someone who doesn’t want anything of me,” he said, and leant in to kiss DeBryn. 

His lips were soft but the pressure behind them was forceful, and when DeBryn angled his head to allow his mouth to slip open, Morse claimed entry. He slid closer, pressing them together hungrily and running long fingers through DeBryn’s close-cropped hair. 

DeBryn reacted instinctively, and by the time his thoughts caught up with his actions his arms were encircling Morse, his hips bucking uprising to press against the constable’s. Morse lowered his mouth to kiss along the line from his ear down the straight shot of his neck to his collarbone, his fingers undoing DeBryn’s bowtie and collar. 

“Is this what you want?” he asked Morse, breathlessly, as his shirt was opened and Morse’s questing fingers rubbed at his nipples. 

“ _Yes_ ,” growled Morse, teeth against his throat. DeBryn’s eyes slid closed and he buried his hands in Morse’s hair. Despite its tangled appearance it was soft and clean, and he could feel the heat radiating up from the skull beneath. With one hand he removed his glasses and set them down on the sofa’s arm. 

“Then could we adjourn to my room? I have – I need –” Morse’s fingers ran up over the bulge in his trousers and his head bobbed back, pleasure spiking through him. But he felt Morse’s weight lift and opened his eyes to rise after him, allowing Morse to weave their fingers together and pull him down the hall past the spare bedroom to the master. 

In his element he took charge, pushing Morse back into the bed and starting in on his shirt; Morse made a noise of frustration and pulled it and his vest both over his head before DeBryn was half done. His chest was as pale as the rest of him, with a delicious smattering of freckles and a light tufting of red-gold hair rising from his belt-line. His ribs pushed out against his smooth skin, and there were silvery lines showing his scars – the most prominent the mark of Gull’s knife from two years ago. He smiled toothily to see DeBryn appreciating him.

Morse rose to pull off his trousers, and DeBryn disposed of his own and his shirt before joining him on the bed. He straddled Morse’s thighs and kissed him, this time running his hands down the strong line of Morse’s back to rub his thumbs into the dip beneath the hip-bones; Morse let out his breath in a sharp huff.

“What do you want?” asked DeBryn, pushing the tips of his fingers beneath the line of Morse’s shorts and running them over the top of the curve of his arse. Morse shivered. 

“That. More. Everything,” he hissed, running a kiss over DeBryn’s neck that had an edge of teeth in it. DeBryn slipped his hands lower, pulling back to sit between Morse’s legs and let the younger man tip forward towards him as he worked his cheeks apart, fingers massaging the sensitive flesh. Morse was panting against him now, his hands clutching at DeBryn’s shoulders. 

DeBryn reached out without looking to find the drawer beside his bed. From it he produced a jar of Vaseline and took a generous scoop, smearing it over his fingers. He used his free hand to push Morse’s shorts down, reveling in as much as he could see over Morse’s shoulder, before slipping his hand back towards Morse’s core. His finger found the entrance and he stroked over it, slowly teasing it until the younger man was shuddering, leaning forwards into him and hooking his chin over DeBryn’s shoulder to gasp. Only then did he slip his finger in, feeling his own heart leap at the tight warmth.

Morse’s breath was coming in quick gasps now; he reached down to pull his shorts free entirely, then shuffled forwards to mount DeBryn’s lap and cant his hips forwards. DeBryn slid a second finger in to join the first and Morse’s hips snapped against his; DeBryn’s cock was beginning to ache with want. 

“More. Please,” gritted out Morse, and DeBryn added a third finger, rubbing them upwards towards the prostate and feeling Morse jolt each time he stroked over it. It was making his own hips twitch in sympathy, and as he pressed in more deeply and Morse moaned he knew he couldn’t wait. 

He slid his fingers out and pushed Morse backwards; Morse slid off him and turned, baring his arse as he fell forwards onto the bed. DeBryn freed himself of his underwear and gave himself a few slick pulls. The sight of Morse lying there with his arse in the air waiting to be taken was intoxicating, irresistible. DeBryn lined himself up and pushed slowly in, feeling Morse pull in a breath as his cock slid in.

He was tight and slick and perfect, so much so that it was all DeBryn could do to keep from slamming his hips in and taking the man all at once. He forced himself to ease forwards, the sensation of Morse’s heat against his prick maddening. Finally he pressed up until his balls were against Morse’s arse, until all of him was inside and he could _feel_ Morse panting, raw with need. 

DeBryn could tell as he started to stroke in and out that he wouldn’t last long, that he was already achingly close to rapture. From the sounds Morse was making he wasn’t alone; Morse had his face half-buried in a pillow but it scarcely masked the rasp of his voice as DeBryn drove in over his prostate. Their hips bucked together, DeBryn speeding the pace until he was pounding in as hard as he dared, until all he knew was the burning circle of want – need – reward. 

Morse came first, with a low barking cry half-swallowed by the pillow. He tightened spasmodically around DeBryn as he came, hips slamming forwards, and when DeBryn continued to ride him he made a long low keening sound. It was enough to send DeBryn after him, driving into the tight heat until he was balls deep and grinding up against Morse. 

Afterwards he tumbled them both over to lie spooned together, Morse before him. 

“You did believe me?” said Morse eventually, voice soft and sleepy. DeBryn blinked.

“About what?”

Morse turned to look at him, eyes half-lidded. “What I want. It isn’t a partner, isn’t a lover. I just…”

“Need not to be alone. I believe you,” replied DeBryn, slowly. 

“It’s alright. Isn’t it?” He sounded worried, as though worried now he’d dug himself in too deep.

DeBryn sighed, rather peevishly. “Yes, Morse. It’s alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DeBryn refers to "Lake Isle of Innisfree" by Yeats, and quotes Matthew 10:21. Morse quotes Jean-Paul Sartre.
> 
> I don't know whether or not there will be any more of this; if so, it probably won't be too soon.


	2. Rum Tum Tugger

DeBryn was just finishing the washing up when the doorbell rang. He plunged his hand into the soapy basin and pulled the plug before taking up a tea towel and heading for the door. He dried his hands as he crossed the shag carpet of the living room, skin tight and reddened from the hot water. 

He opened the door to find a sodden Morse standing on the steps, soaked through with a completeness that couldn’t be explained by the evening drizzle. DeBryn was momentarily reminded of a stray tom showing up with appetite and expectation. He smile drolly.

“To what do I owe this honour?” he asked, handing Morse the tea towel and stepping back to let him in.

“Hooligans on the Isis,” replied Morse tiredly, taking it and drying his hands, then his face and neck. His coat, suit and shirt were all soaked through, his shoes muddy and his hair a damp mess. He toed off the shoes and stripped out of the wet coat and jacket, hanging them on the pegs provided in the entryway. “The hot water in my flat’s been out since this morning,” he added, by way of further explanation. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you against taking it; it had the look of inclemency from the first.” DeBryn glanced at Morse’s outer layers; they were beginning to drip water down onto the wooden floor. “Perhaps you’d better have a bath, and some brandy against the cold,” he suggested, eyeing the detective’s damp pallor and the blueness of his fingernails.

“Brandy certainly,” replied Morse, smiling now, but he let DeBryn precede him to the main bathroom and turn the faucets until the water was steaming, mirror beginning to fog up. DeBryn left Morse standing in his socks on the bathmat and padded out, returning to the kitchen to pour some brandy. 

Somehow he wasn’t quite prepared on his return to find Morse standing in the same place as before, but now completely starkers. Morse had hung his shirt, tie and trousers over the centre of the bath’s curtain rod, socks and shorts wagging jollily from the end near the wall. “I suppose they’ll need a proper cleaning, but that should dry them out enough to get me home,” he said, turning as DeBryn came in bearing the brandy.

DeBryn made some vague reply, brain switching entirely onto autopilot. He was far more taken up with the stretch of Morse’s pale skin, the slant of his strong shoulders, his long narrow flanks and the curling ginger hair under which his genitals were tucked. It wasn’t DeBryn’s first time seeing Morse naked, but it had been dark in his room before and he had been… distracted. Now, with the opportunity of soaking in the sight of the detective he found his mouth growing dry and his heart beginning to hammer in his chest even while a hungry ache twisted into being low in his stomach. 

Under his long look Morse flushed, a shrimpy pink that spread up his neck and over his cheeks, turning to a darker puce as it settled into his ears. He brushed an invisible speck of dust from his bicep, giving a self-deprecating smile. DeBryn handed him the brandy and he took a sip before setting it on the sink and getting into the bath. His skin reddened almost instantly as he sat, water washing up over his legs, thighs and hips. DeBryn turned to leave.

“Stay – if you like,” he said, voice guttural. The sound of running water ceased, leaving the bathroom steamy and momentarily silent. DeBryn turned on stocking feet, then put down the lid of the toilet and took a seat on it. He watched as Morse sunk further into the water, down to cover his abdomen, chest and shoulders; some of the awkwardness eased from his face and the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders relaxed. He sighed.

“How long have you been walking around half-drowned?” asked DeBryn, hands folded on his knees. 

Morse blinked, considering. “Perhaps half an hour? It was raining properly when I went into the river, and that didn’t help much. Strange went back to the nick with the offenders, and I was to go home. Only…”

“You didn’t fancy warming up without hot water,” commented DeBryn.

Morse stilled. And then, leaving behind his pensive self and becoming another altogether more self-aware one, he looked up through his pale lashes. His blue eyes were suddenly sly, shoulders opening and one knee tipping outwards to put himself full on display. “I didn’t fancy warming up alone,” he corrected, in a voice like honey. DeBryn swallowed, a wave of desire flooding through him and searing his nerves with prickling anticipation. 

He slowly took off his glasses, polishing them absently and then placing them on the counter; without them his distance vision was badly affected, but Morse was close enough to remain in focus – and at the moment he was all that DeBryn wanted to see. “I think you’ll find me versed in the treatment of hypothermic patients,” he said, amusement in his tone. Morse smiled coyly, then rose in a rushing shower of water and a billowing waft of steam. DeBryn handed him a towel which he used cursorily, before stepping forward to kiss DeBryn.

DeBryn was already hardening as he returned Morse’s embrace, pulling the detective closer to him and fitting their hips together. He fell back against the counter and let Morse press him into it, grinding their loins together while DeBryn ran his hands over Morse’s warm skin, fingers skidding now and then over wet patches. He worked his fingers down Morse’s spine, rubbing between the vertebrae and over the long muscles of his back, before reaching the curved iliac crest and the top of the coccyx. Morse pulled gently from the kiss as DeBryn began to work his hands over Morse’s pert arse, digging his fingers into the muscle there and drawing the cheeks apart without seeking entrance; Morse bent to press his face into DeBryn’s neck, breathing hotly against the edge of his collar. 

“Shall we retire to the bedroom?” asked DeBryn in a wry tone; Morse gave a low hum of approval, beginning to work DeBryn’s shirt open as they made their way down the hall. Once in the bedroom DeBryn turned on the light, “I want to see you properly, this time,” he said, pushing Morse back onto the bed. 

Morse took up his position sitting on the bed, his cock rising half-hard and beautifully flushed. DeBryn pulled his shirt and vest over his head, dropping his trousers unceremoniously. His own member was pressed tightly against the soft cotton of his underpants, but he let it ride there; the sensation was sending searing waves of pleasure-pain through him. He sat beside Morse and reached out to push him back onto the bed; Morse fell back obligingly, eyes amused but darkened with anticipation. He lay back propped up on his elbows, legs partially spread, and watched silently as DeBryn reached out to run his hand over the inside of his thigh, stroking up from the knee and rising closer and closer to his cock without ever quite reaching it. Back and forth over the velvety flesh, down to slip his pressing fingertips over Morse’s perineum, even back further to press in between his cheeks, before pulling back to stroke over the inside of the opposite thigh. Morse was beginning to take sharper breaths, chest rising and falling steeply.

When he dipped his hand down to catch Morse’s balls and stroke them, he finally pulled a groan from the detective, whose head fell back to expose the curved line of his throat. He panted audibly as DeBryn massaged, rubbing back and forth and then beginning to grind harder.

“Hell – Max – I –” He turned his head at an awkward angle to catch DeBryn’s eye, face tight with need. It went right to DeBryn’s cock, set it aching harder than ever, and as if in a further step of self-denial he pulled his hand up and began stroking Morse’s cock instead of his own. He began gently but Morse bucked his hips against such teasing, and DeBryn tightened his grip and sped his pace until Morse lay pink and writhing. With his hands caught in the duvet cover and his legs spread he should have looked foolish, but the sight of him hot and panting for DeBryn’s touch took the doctor’s breath away and left him hungry and shivering. DeBryn rubbed the pad of his thumb over the head of Morse’s cock and felt his stomach clench as the younger man bucked up into it with a groan. 

DeBryn shifted, stripping off his underwear and then shifting forwards to settle his hips over Morse’s, grinding downwards. Morse caught his lip in his teeth, breath held in his chest as DeBryn canted his hips in a quick, desperate rhythm. Morse’s prick was hard against his own, a burst of pleasure tearing through him with each thrust, each stroke of his cock against Morse’s eager hips. It was good but not enough – not nearly. 

DeBryn reached between them and took both their pricks together tightly in his fist, stroked down as Morse let out his breath in a loud moan. They were both riding hard, pushing desperately towards completion; the edges of DeBryn’s vision were blurring, his thoughts beginning to fade. All he knew was the searing, exquisite hints of ecstasy each thrust brought, and the need to shatter the walls holding it back from him. Morse’s hands were clenched on his hips, fingers digging into his flesh but it only served to spur him on, the bruising pain closer to pleasure as he stroked faster, faster, faster. Morse was gasping below him; he was gasping, throat burning as he sought to suck in air. God, he needed – he needed –

DeBryn came with a cry, jerking forwards heavily and rutting up against Morse as his seed spilled over his hand. A moment later Morse was following, wetting DeBryn’s hand as he shuddered through his own orgasm. DeBryn slowed his fist, shivering as he stroked them through the last shades of their climaxes, until he stopped and rolled off to the side. His heart was still racing, breathing coming in short pants, and for a moment the two of them lay there struggling to regain their composure. 

As his skin cooled DeBryn found himself shivering in earnest under his sheen of sweat, and looked over to his companion. “I don’t recall you draining the tub,” he said; Morse gave him a slow look, but shook his head. “Then I expect the water is still warm. We might clean up a bit.”

“So we might,” returned Morse wryly, eyes slanting downwards to the scene of their debauchery, and then back up to catch DeBryn’s gaze with a look of eminent self-satisfaction. 

A homing tom-cat indeed, thought DeBryn, and rose to lead the way to the bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes when I hear "Old Time Rock and Roll" and am in a particularly Morse head-space, I replace "Rock and Roll" with "Classical." Just in case you wanted to know. :D


	3. Moments of Glad Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Series 3 has rekindled my vast Morse/DeBryn love, so here we are back again. I'm re-construing this piece a bit; it will remain porn-heavy but will bring in some plot.

The sun was flowing into DeBryn’s study in a lazy river, the thick beams of light full of dust that turned them a soft gold. In the bay window a faded red velvet cushion served as a long seat, framed about the edges in oak. On it lay Morse, spread on his back with his head tilted back at an angle to expose his long pale throat rising from the collar of his shirt, dark tie loosened to drape down off the edge of the window seat. His chest rose and fell slowly, breathing deep and even.

DeBryn, sitting beyond the reach of the sunlight at his corner desk, found himself looking up over the top of Yeats to trace the sharp lines of Morse’s face. His hair was glowing like a burning brand, skin smooth and delicately freckled in the bright light. For once in his life he looked at ease: it was a scene DeBryn felt he ought to box up and keep for posterity’s sake, a memory to pull out and look at later when the detective was ricocheting between broken and hell-bent. 

“I’ve been door to door,” he had said when he arrived on DeBryn’s doorstep in the late afternoon, running a thumb over the reddened skin of his cheeks, “passing information on potential counterfeit bills. Ended up next street over, so I thought I’d stop by.” Behind him the hydrangeas lining the path from the pavement to DeBryn’s door sparkled in the sun, their lively blue matching his eyes. 

DeBryn had welcomed him in and he had promptly spread himself out over the cushion in the window like a throw rug, the heat of the sun lulling him into sleep. 

His breathing now was just audible, mouth hanging half-open. DeBryn was used to music as an accompaniment to poetry, or more often silence, but there was something endearing about Morse’s soft snores, something that produced a sense of peace and tranquility. 

DeBryn rose, leaving behind Morse and Yeats, and padded into the kitchen where he poured himself a cool glass of beer from the refrigerator. He returned with it in hand and settled himself back in his chair, with an indulgent look at the detective. 

“How many loved your moments of glad grace?” he murmured to himself, eyes on Morse’s supine frame. But then love was a dangerous word, a thought to be banished. Morse had made that clear from the first, had left no doubt on the subject of what he was here for – not love, not affection. Just a light in the darkness, a reminder that he wasn’t alone when the weight of the world grew too heavy for him to shoulder. 

And their clear mutual attraction? DeBryn wondered about it sometimes when he allowed his mind to wander, when cleaning glassware in the morgue or whilst wandering the aisles of the grocer’s or in the early hours of the morning when lying alone between the sheets. There was more to their companionship than blind need. But how much more, and what was the worth of exploring the topic any further?

He traced the curved line of Morse’s hips with his eyes, cheap suit trousers riding tight over skin to leave little to the imagination. In his chest his heart gave a little surge, urging his mind on to further ardent fantasies. 

He enjoyed what they had; that was unquestionable. Would he enjoy something more – a fuller relationship – that was the question. Morse was not an easy man to love; all rough edges and spring-loaded restlessness, he could sometimes lay his heart bare to the bone and others lock himself away behind prickly choler and an unforgiving moral compass that drove him to take on the world on his own. 

On his bed of dusty red velvet Morse stirred, breathing deepening as his limbs lost their limpness and stretched. Blue eyes slid open, shuttered against the bright sunlight. “How long was I asleep?” He raised an arm to shadow his face, tilting his head to look crookedly up at DeBryn. 

DeBryn glanced at the clock on the wall beside his desk. “Close on an hour.”

Morse sat up with a groan, his hair creeping upwards on one side as though licked by a particularly affectionate cow. He yawned and stretched his back, thin chest curving outwards and the tails of his shirt peeping out from the line of his trousers. “It’s the blasted sun,” he complained, rising and stepping out of the pillar of light.

“Keep complaining and there’ll be nothing but rain from now ‘til Michaelmas,” replied DeBryn with a wry smile. 

Morse gave him a sly look, head canted low so that he gazed up through his eyelashes. “Perhaps. But rain doesn’t act as a soporific. And I can think of better uses for my time than napping.” 

Like a match to newspaper DeBryn felt passion kindle under his skin, warming him from the inside out. He sat, still as a statue, as Morse stepped over and with slow deliberateness dropped to his knees in front of DeBryn. His breath caught as Morse reached out with both hands, resting them lightly on DeBryn’s knees and then stroking them higher, running them up along his thighs with his nails turned down to make DeBryn shiver. He reached the intersection of thigh and pelvis, one hand trailing backwards over DeBryn’s hip to cup his arse while the other – the other…

DeBryn leant back in his chair, spreading his legs wider to give Morse full access to his rapidly-filling prick. Morse was stroking him through the fabric of his trousers, softly at first, and then when DeBryn canted his hips forward with greater intention. He was smiling, a heady, self-satisfied grin at the reaction he was eliciting. 

DeBryn made to reach for him, mouth opening to receive Morse’s, but he was rebuffed gently, Morse’s eyes twinkling. “I’ve everything I want just here,” he said, palming DeBryn’s prick. A moment later he was undoing the zip, pushing DeBryn’s shorts down and pulling him free. Morse made an appreciative sound as he took DeBryn in hand, and bent his head. 

The first lap of Morse’s tongue over the head of his cock was like an electric shock; DeBryn twitched with it and Morse laughed, the heat of his breath deeply erotic as it rolled down over DeBryn’s shaft. Then he was bobbing his head, swallowing DeBryn down and turning his eyes up to look at the doctor – dirty, debauched, and perfectly beautiful. 

DeBryn latched his hands onto the arms of his chair, fingers twisting against the carved wood as Morse worked his mouth over the length of him, his mouth hot and wet. He slid a hand down lower to cradle DeBryn’s balls, fondling them with a maddening tenderness. 

“Hell – Morse – please –” panted DeBryn, and Morse snorted again but increased the pressure, grinding instead of stroking, while his tongue lapped at the underside of DeBryn’s aching cock. 

In this moment all his thoughts about the future, about what he and Morse might or might not mean to one another, vanished like mist under the sun’s heat. Tomorrow ceased utterly to matter; all there was was the immediacy of the moment, the raw need surging through him, making him moan under Morse’s attentions. 

And then he was coming, ejaculating with a cry into Morse’s mouth and the constable swallowed him down, down, down, and licked him neatly as a cat afterwards to wipe his prick clean. 

“Christ,” muttered DeBryn, feeling his glasses tilting askew on his face but without the strength to straighten them. 

Morse pulled back and stood, tall and straight as a young aspen, casting his shadow over DeBryn. He was still smiling, but with less pride and more fondness now. “I prefer to be active in the afternoon,” he said, reaching down to unbutton the button of his trousers. 

“I think you’ve proven that,” replied DeBryn, rising on unsteady legs. Morse didn’t protest as he was pressed against the wall between the desk and bookshelf, DeBryn’s hand falling to caress the bulge in his trousers. He leant forwards and kissed Morse, tasted his own tangy saltiness on Morse’s lips. It set his blood to boiling and he pressed in harder, sliding his hand down Morse’s trousers to stroke him hard and fast. Morse sucked in a shocked breath, his hands roving over DeBryn’s back. 

“How you have it in you to drive me so wild…” muttered DeBryn as he broke for air, lips running a trail over Morse’s cheekbone to the shell of his ear. 

“Must be natural ability,” replied Morse, his voice catching as DeBryn ran his thumb over the slit of his prick. The doctor slid his hand up momentarily to push Morse’s trousers down over the bony swell of his hips until they slid down reluctantly into gravity’s embrace and continued on down to pool at his ankles. 

The bottle of oil he had laid in since Morse had begun dropping by was in the bedroom; he turned instead to the old standby of saliva. Spitting generously in his hand while Morse watched with hooded eyes, he slicked his fingers and then slid his hand down the curve of Morse’s spine and over the shirttails covering his pert arse to stroke at his entrance. Morse stilled against him, hands gripping themselves over DeBryn’s shoulders and staying there. 

DeBryn played his index finger over the puckered surface while Morse canted himself closer and closer, begging with his body. When his hips were pressed firmly to DeBryn’s, his cock flush against DeBryn’s stomach, the doctor finally gave him what he was looking for and slipped his finger inside, stroking in and out. Morse drew in a shaky breath, hips rubbing up against DeBryn in a lazy pattern while DeBryn pushed into him from behind, fucked him with his fingers over and over. 

Morse curled himself about DeBryn, his head buried in DeBryn’s neck, his arms latched now under DeBryn’s arms to hold himself up as he took his pleasure, moaning quietly when DeBryn thrust in with particular force. 

“Max, I want it. I want it – now – now – God, I…”

DeBryn slid in a third finger, stroking deeply over the curve of the prostate, driving into it repeatedly while Morse rutted up against him, his breath coming now in panting sobs. Finally with a groan he came, long and wet, his hands fisting themselves in DeBryn’s shirt. DeBryn slipped his hands free, encircled Morse gently with his arms and held him as his breathing eased. 

Slow as treacle the detective slipped backwards, leaning himself up against the wall and tilting his head back to show the trickling streams of sweat running down his neck. His face was flushed, his hair damp. He looked down at DeBryn and his earlier grin resurfaced, although tempered now from amusement to satisfaction. “A much better way to spend the afternoon, don’t you agree?”

DeBryn returned his smile, sliding back down into his chair to unobtrusively rest his aching wrist. “How could I not?”

The future, it seemed would have to wait for another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DeBryn quotes "When You Are Old" by William Butler Yeats.


	4. Fearful Symmetry

Pulling up to the mansion the WPC on the phone had called Crevecoeur, the first thing DeBryn noticed was the cluster of vehicles that served as the hallmark of recent death – or at least the discovery thereof: the black Jags, the coroner’s men’s van, the ambulance. 

The next he noticed was Morse, perched on the hood of one of the dormant Jags, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, the curve of his back like a circular saw against the red brick of the old mansion beyond.

Apprehension fluttered to life in DeBryn’s stomach as he parked his car on the side of the gravel drive; he hurried to pull his kit from the boot and trekked over across the drive bordered by the lush green lawn to Morse’s side. Closer to, he could see that Morse’s skin was the colour of oatmeal, and that his arms were trembling as though holding up a formidable weight.

“Morse?” he asked, carefully setting down his kit in the Jag’s shadow. “Everything alright?”

Morse looked up slowly, pulling his head from his hands and turning to face DeBryn. His eyes were startlingly wide, pupils huge and ringed by a tiny circle of blue; his expression was hollow. “There was a tiger,” he said, in a flat, leaden voice.

If DeBryn hadn’t seen the remains of the mangled corpse, the words would have sounded comic, or mad. But he had, had seen the torn flesh and shredded arteries, the bones snapped like kindling. He straightened, running a clinical gaze over Morse and disliking what he found. “Go wait in my car.”

“I’m –”

“Don’t argue with a doctor, Morse; we carry a wide array of sharp needles.”

Morse gave him an unamused look, but slid slowly off the hood. He hit the ground heavily and caught himself with an awkward hop, arms twisting around his lanky torso. He looked to the side, to a long line of thick laurel trees. “The corpse is in the maze. The blue string marks the way,” he added, nodding to a line of yarn twisted in the delicate laurel branches forming the walls of what DeBryn now realised was a maze rather than a long hedge. 

“And the other?” DeBryn asked, looking to the second, red line of yarn.

“The tiger.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

The tiger had been thorough in its work: the great vessels in the neck had been ripped clean through, and claws had rent the flesh of the torso down to score against the ribcage, even through the intervening layers of clothing. DeBryn suspected that at least two cervical vertebrae had been cracked in the fall, but by that time it would have made no difference; the man his notes identified as Craven had been dead the moment the tiger hit him.

It didn’t take long for the certification and to make the appropriate notations in his book. With his work done, DeBryn stood, and paused. The line of the red thread wove away through the shivering green branches, a temptation to his curiosity. After a moment of indecision he packed up his kit and followed it, navigating swiftly through the laurel corridors.

With the trail to follow he soon found himself solving the maze, passing deeper and deeper into its innards. Until he rounded a corner and was suddenly, abruptly there: the core of the maze, an open rectangular plot with a bench and an overturned perambulator.

And, in the centre, a dead tiger shot through the heart.

“Crevecoeur,” said DeBry, setting down his box, “How terribly appropriate.”

The beast was huge and ferocious even now, jaws hanging open to reveal curved incisors long enough to pierce the neck through the jugular to the spine and strong enough to shatter bone. Its paws had the spread of a man’s hands, tipped with massive claws. Its thick, luxurious fur was patterned with stripes from saffron to umber to coal. From tail-tip to nose it must have been nearing three yards in length. 

Even with a bullet buried in its heart, it was a fearsome thing.

DeBryn stood in the open centre of the maze, surveying the scene with a cold feeling in his stomach. A dead tiger, and an empty pram. And Morse, who looked as though he’d stared into death’s eyes and seen the nothingness staring back. 

“What immortal hand or eye, indeed,” he muttered, and turned his back on the dead cat.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Morse was sitting stiffly in the car when he returned, jaw clenched; like a firework with a lit fuse DeBryn had the sense that he was very close to going off. The doctor tucked his box away in the boot before getting in, the little car jolting with the addition of his bulk. 

“Dare I ask how you came by the task of waiting for me?” he enquired, pulling his keys from his pocket but keeping them waiting in his hand. 

“Seniority, or lack thereof.” Morse’s voice was tight and clipped, his shoulders set in a high, straight line. “You saw it. The tiger.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. Magnificent. And terrifying. Where is the child?” 

“With his mother now. Safe. The beast got loose; I went to find the pair of them in the maze. And then it came on us.” He reached a hand up to rub his first and second fingers over his temple, the motion spastic. “Mr Bright shot it,” he finished, a short emotionless narrative told in words of one syllable. It made DeBryn’s blood run cold.

“You were there? With it?” asked DeBryn. But he already knew the answer; the overturned pram had told the whole story. 

Morse jerked his head up and down once, neck so stiff it was trembling. His hand dropped to his collar, pulling it away from his grey skin. His tongue darted out to wet his dry lips. “It was jumping at us – and then it wasn’t.” He gave a sudden great shiver, drawing in on himself despite the warm June sunshine. 

DeBryn reached out and rested his hand on Morse’s shoulder, felt the tension in the muscle beneath his hand. “You’re alright now, Morse.” He slotted the key into the ignition. “I’ll take you home.”

Morse opened his mouth and then shut it, nodding again. He was still staring out the window, although what it was he saw DeBryn couldn’t imagine. 

“And then it may be time for a refresher course in shock for the station,” muttered the doctor darkly to himself as he turned the engine over.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Morse’s flat was a dank, grotty basement flat, all chipping paint and rings cracked ceilings, but it at least had a proper bedroom and bathroom. The first thing Morse did upon letting them in the door was hurry to the latter to rinse out his mouth, further darkening DeBryn’s opinion of the recent past.

It was past dinnertime, but DeBryn doubted very much that Morse had an appetite. What he did have was a thirst; as soon as he returned to the kitchen, tie now hanging loosely around his neck, he reached down the bottle of whiskey and poured out two drinks. DeBryn accepted his in silence, watching as Morse knocked back half his glass in one swallow.

He wasn’t shaking anymore, but no colour had returned to his cheeks, and his eyes had a glassy, hollow look to them. They put DeBryn in mind of old blown-glass fishing buoys, their opaque surface reflecting the light dully. 

“You ought to have something warm,” said DeBryn, looking with faint hope around Morse’s bare kitchen. Half-open cupboards revealed empty shelves; the counter was taken up with empty cans and bottles. 

“I thought a drink was best for a shock,” replied Morse, wryly. 

“Yes, but not for an empty stomach.”

“I’m not hungry,” said the detective, confirming DeBryn’s suspicions. 

“Some soup? Beef tea?”

Morse gave him a long look, finally surrendering with a sigh. “There’s some Bovril and a few rolls and margarine.” He produced a battered brown paper bakery bag from behind an empty pickle jar. 

“It’ll do,” said DeBryn, suppressing his bleak disappointment at the prospective dinner. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

By the time they had heated the Bovril and warmed the rolls to take off the edge of staleness and consumed the rather woeful meal, it was getting on for nine o’clock. 

“Another drink?” suggested Morse, rising from the table. “Unless… if you’d rather go?”

DeBryn looked up, eyes careful behind his glasses. “Do you want me to?” 

Morse swallowed, and for an instant DeBryn saw a sliver of fear in his eyes. In his hands, his knife skittered suddenly across his empty plate and he jerked to stop it. “No. I don’t.”

DeBryn rose and slipped over to rest a hand on his arm, steadying him. He could feel the heat of Morse’s skin, reassuringly warm. “Then I’ll stay.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Morse had no sofa and only one decent chair in his flat; as a concession to necessity they ended up sitting on the bed, drinking cheap whiskey and kicking their feet against the floor. After a while DeBryn shuffled off his sweater and bowtie in the summer heat; Morse’s jacket and tie followed, their clothes pooling together on the floor. The late evening sun streamed in through the drawn blinds of the living room, turning the flat a warm gold. 

For a while they talked of nothing specific, of station gossip and hospital odds and sods, of DeBryn’s fishing holiday and Morse’s newest record. But it was a forced, stilted conversation and eventually it ran aground as the supply of alcohol waned and the room grew darker. 

They fell into a close, companionable silence, shoulders rubbing occasionally as they sunk inexorably towards the centre of the mattress. And then, out of nowhere:

“Do you remember when I was shot?” Morse asked, tracing the line of his hip with an absent hand, his other wrapped tight about the glass of whiskey. 

The words brought with them an unwelcome tide of helplessness and fear, cold and wet as mist settling in under DeBryn’s skin. “Yes, Morse,” he said gently. “I helped mop up, if you recall.” What he still remembered most vividly was arriving at the crime scene knowing only that multiple bodies were to be expected, and finding Morse lying motionless on the ground. The room had still smelt of gunpowder, and under it the coppery tang of blood. For a heart-stopping moment he had thought him dead, until Thursday looked up from the detective’s side and DeBryn saw not grief but grimness there.

Blanketed by his unexpectedly heavy despair, he instinctively made to reach out to Morse, and disguised the gesture by going for the bottle at the last minute. He didn’t pour himself out any more, just sat holding it. It was nearly empty, amber liquid licking at the sides. 

Morse turned his lips inward momentarily, brow creased with deep thought. “Afterwards… once I’d recovered… the memory of the fear lingered, like a disease. I couldn’t seem to shake free of it. It was always with me, weighing on me, and when I slept…” he swallowed. “I stopped sleeping. I don’t know how, now – it used to feel like it happened to someone else, like it’s behind a veil. But it feels closer than ever now, _just right there_ , and I –” his voice broke and he took a drink. “I don’t want to go back to that,” he finished in a dry, roughened voice. 

Had he been more sober, DeBryn most likely would have discussed trauma resulting from injury, and how it differed from psychological trauma – especially brief exposure trauma. But his thoughts were bleeding together, memories coming and going like the sun peeking out from behind clouds, and so instead he put the bottle down on the bed and reached out with his free hand, encircling Morse’s wrist and holding it tightly in his hand. He could feel Morse’s heartbeat there, steady as clockwork.

“You won’t. You won’t be haunted by this. Not tonight, and not afterwards.” Much later he felt the ridiculousness of his promise, but at the moment he meant it with all the surety he had, firm diagnosis of fact. He took Morse’s glass and his own and put them down on the floor by the foot of the bed, undoing their shoelaces while he was about it. Then he kicked off his shoes and pulled Morse back onto the narrow bed, his arm around Morse’s chest and Morse’s back to his front. 

Morse sighed. After a moment he raised a hand to hook over DeBryn’s arm, his fingers tightening there. 

Eventually, DeBryn fell asleep.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

DeBryn’s dreamt of hot summer sunshine pouring down on his naked skin, of biting into an over-ripe peach whose sweet juice ran down his chin, of licking honey from the soft skin of his wrist, of grinding himself down onto Morse’s warm hips and feeling the answering arousal in Morse’s prick. 

He woke to find himself very hard, hips pressed up against Morse’s arse twitching of their own accord. His cock was folded tightly against his trousers, aching for release. His arm was still slung over Morse’s side; as he stiffened it slipped lower and brushed up against Morse’s own arousal. In the silence of the now-dark bedroom, Morse groaned. His hands raised to brush against DeBryn’s, his touch like an electric current. DeBryn’s hand grasped his and Morse turned, rolling over and pushing DeBryn onto his back. He kissed the doctor once, hard, and then he was backing off to strip off his trousers and pants. Heartbeat pounding in his ears DeBryn followed suit, stroking himself to take the edge off. 

Then Morse was back, pushing him onto his back and swinging himself up to straddle DeBryn, canting their hips together. DeBryn gasped, head flying back into the pillow as Morse rotated his hips, grinding them back and forth. The sensation was like sweetness in the back of his throat; it made him ache for more, made his mouth water hungrily. 

It was too dark to see, but he heard Morse’s questing hand find the drawer in the bedside table. Morse leant forwards, and DeBryn heard him catch his breath. One hand returned to press over DeBryn’s heart, thumb playing against his nipple; the other hand did not. Morse’s hips took up a slow, easy pace; just audible was the sound of his fingers slicking in and out of his arse, readying himself. It made DeBryn’s cock throb harder, much harder, the agony of anticipation ravaging him. 

A moment later Morse’s slick hand was sliding up and down over his member; DeBryn moaned at the sudden wet pressure, at the feel of Morse’s thumb rubbing over the head of his cock in a quick caress before Morse raised himself higher and then brought DeBryn up to meet him as he sat. 

DeBryn’s hands flew up to catch hold of Morse’s thighs as he sank past Morse’s buttocks to press against his arse, desperate for something to hold onto. The feeling as he slipped inside Morse was so saturated with pleasure that he thought it might stop his heart, his nerves aflame with desire. The world shrank with alarming rapidity to encompass just the two of them and nothing else; even the air he breathed felt thin and recycled, passing between himself and Morse in an endless loop.

Morse lowered himself until DeBryn was in him up to his bollocks, until he was buried full and deep inside Morse’s slick passage. DeBryn’s hips jumped, begging hungrily, and Morse condescended to raise himself again to begin setting a slow, steady rhythm. 

The pace that Morse set was agonizingly slow when set against the enormity of DeBryn’s raw need, like a grain of sand to the sea. DeBryn groaned and thrust upwards, lust-drunk and craving the pressure of Morse’s hips. Some tiny portion of his mind that had retained his sanity recognized that Morse needed this control, needed to take command. He tightened his hands over Morse’s thighs and swallowed, back trying to arch itself against the sinking mattress, and held on. 

Morse gave another few slow strokes before speeding up, his hand lowering to pump himself. He was taking his own pleasure, was giving himself exactly what he wanted. The thought made DeBryn harder still and he canted up with a gruff cry, pulling Morse’s thighs down hard. Morse shuddered and repeated the motion, as DeBryn ran his hand up Morse’s thigh to find the curve of his bollocks, rubbing them as he stroked himself. Morse cursed under his breath and took up a quicker pace still, rutting himself up onto DeBryn.

He was losing his rhythm now, going so fast there was no longer a pattern to his movements, just the race of naked need. When he came DeBryn felt it, felt his body closing tightly over his cock as he shuddered through his orgasm. The intensity of it was immeasurable; DeBryn grinded upwards into Morse’s suddenly tight arse, hitting his prostate again and again until Morse cried out, his hands latching over DeBryn’s arms and fixing there. 

Only when Morse ceased to shudder did he follow him over the edge, burying himself balls-deep and spilling his seed inside Morse, groaning through locked teeth. 

They turned over together, Morse slipping off him and coming to lie against him again. They were naked now, hot and sweaty but despite that DeBryn draped his arm back over Morse’s narrow waist. “Alright?” he asked, pulling Morse tight. 

Morse sighed, soft and sleepy, and twitched closer. “Alright.” His hand fastened over DeBryn’s and held on. “Alright.”

DeBryn glanced at the clock beside the bed, its phosphorescent hands glowing softly. Only a few more hours until dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DeBryn references William Blake's "The Tyger".


End file.
